Eight months ago was the beginning of the end of the world as we know it.
My kids are still home. From school. Since March.
They miss their friends.
They spend too much time on devices but what the hell else are they supposed to do?
It’s Saturday.
We are getting ready to head to a drive-by Birthday party, because that’s how we do birthdays in the pandemic.
We wear masks to the grocery.
If we dine out, it’s al-fresco, but mostly we get food delivered.
If we can even afford a luxury like a meal we didn’t make at home.
And even that is a luxury, because our government has failed, and people are starving here, and over a quarter of a million people have died from a disease that other parts of the world have managed to eradicate.
It’s Saturday.
It’s been eight months. Thirty-six Saturdays since things shut down.
Most things are back open, but life is far from normal.
Every time we leave the house it’s a calculated risk.
Nothing is changing. Numbers are going up, everywhere.
It’s Saturday. A Saturday where I’m painfully aware that we still have many Saturdays like this ahead.
